One holiday down, albeit the easy one, but it is the one that starts the holiday season. We spent Thanksgiving with my parents in Connecticut. Yes there was a missing chair and place at the table, but there were also laughs, and memories and very few tears. My meltdown came the night before, when it hit me like the Acela train that it really was Thanksgiving without Connor, that we would be traveling to Connecticut as a group of 3 instead of 4.

That is when the tears began to flow, Mark tried to help, saying “it was just another day, and we were going to have dinner with my parents.” As much as I knew what he was trying to do, it made me mad. It wasn’t just another day that we were going to have dinner with my parents. It was fucking Thanksgiving, and we were going to have dinner with my parents minus one of my children. Nothing was going to make that any better, any easier, or soften the pain. There would be an empty place setting (not actually set), but in my heart and soul. Kyle and Connor should be arguing that they can’t sit next to each other, but which one of them got to sit next to mom. And then they would be silly in the living room, both making my dad laugh. Then both of them helping my Mom with her walker, just like it was second nature. Then Connor watching football with my dad, and picking on Kyle that he really doesn’t know much about football. Those are the things that I missed, their poking at each other, both literally figuratively.

What I learned from yesterday is that those memories will live in my heart forever, just like them always having to have Ranch Dressing on their Turkey when they were little. But things change, that is the only thing constant in this world. I wasn’t ready for this change, but we never are, I don’t think I will ever embrace this one. But someday I will learn to live with it, and make it part of my new life. Little changes and movements at a time show that I am getting there.

As I’m laying here on the couch watching The Hallmark Channel, I know it’s all sappy Christmas movies, but there is no real world drama and that is what I need now. What is running through my head is nothing but real world drama. Tomorrow is 11/17/18, the one year anniversary of the day we made the final decision, the day we turned off the machines and disconnected all the tubes that where keeping Connor alive.

I wish I could say that it was an easy decision but it wasn’t. It was the hardest decision I have ever made in my life. One of my biggest worries was how was I going to tell Jordan, the love of his life and her his, that he was never coming back. She had spent 11 days in the PICU with us, she wasn’t ready to lose him and everything they had planned. I chickened out, I let her parents tell her, I wasn’t strong enough to tell her that he was never coming back.

I second guessed it over and over in the hospital, looking for second, third and even fourth opinions. All of those opinions came back the same, that he would never be the same young man as before the accident. He was gone and now I needed to remove the medical intervention that was keeping him here.

For hours before we removed the machines I sat next to him, holding his hand and crying, crying just like I am now. I kept asking him to open his beautiful blue eyes so I could say good bye and tell him I love him. I told him all those things even when he couldn’t open his eyes for me.

I have pictures that I took of him hooked up to all those tubes, but they are for my eyes and memories only. The memories shared here will be of Connor being him, loving Jordan, playing baseball, doing all the things as a smaller child that made me both love him and want to strangle him simultaneously.

There will never be a day that I don’t miss him, at this point in time all I can hope is that I can make it through the holidays without turning into a puddle of mush, but I am not optimistic.

Yesterday was it, the day of the fateful accident. My day that forever will live in infamy. I can tell you exactly where I was, how I reacted, and how we got to Baystate in Springfield. Once we got there, it was a game of hurry up and wait. Then the “Team” came to talk to us and in less than 30 words my world imploded.

“His prognosis is grim, but we will do everything we can do”… Those words will haunt me forever, no matter what they did, my baby was too badly damaged and in the end we had to let him go. It was the right thing, the kindest thing and the thing that was best for everyone. That doesn’t mean that it hurts any less, because it doesn’t.

But what I have learned since this time last year is:

1. I have had more better days as time has gone by.

2. This time last year I was convinced that medical intervention would save him.

3. When that failed, I sunk into a hole, so deep I wasn’t sure I was ever coming out.

4. The grief and sadness overcame every part of me.

5. Tears became my constant companion, I went months without makeup because it was washed away by tears.

6. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss him, or wish he was here with me.

8. I am able to talk about Connor without breaking out in full fledged sobs on most days.

I think of all of these as positives, I still grieve and cry and at times I still howl and scream. But one year ago I never thought I could ever go on. I am strong because I didn’t think had no choice, but to be honest I did have a choice. I could have stayed in that hole, cried, stayed in bed, not gone back to work, not showered, and drank myself into oblivion. I did none of those things because they wouldn’t bring Connor back, they would make me sadder, drunker, and stinkier. But they wouldn’t fix anything.

I’ve always been a fixer, the sad truth is I couldn’t fix this. I couldn’t stop the car, I couldn’t make the head injuries go away, and I couldn’t save him. But I can save myself, and that is the most important thing right now. I have to put me first, because I can’t pour from an empty cup to help anyone else.

I never believed that psychological issues could show up as physical issues. I always thought that was a load of horseshit. On the same plane as Herbal Medicine, meditation, and vitamins solving everything. But I am coming to the realization that my Frozen Shoulder is the stress and grief settled in my right shoulder. Every Dr that I had gone to told me to take anti inflammatory meds (Aleve, Motrin, etc) and it would be fine. 7 months later I finally found an orthopedist who realizes that the pain is real and that Aleve isn’t controlling it. New meds, a cortisone shot, Physical Therapy and the discussion of Manipulation under Anesthesia if things don’t get better. There is hope that I will be able to reach the top shelf again.

Once Connor died my world turned on its head, and I think someone shook it in the process as well. I began to rethink everything. Eastern Medicine wasn’t so crazy if it could help, it helped generations of people long before Big Pharma got involved in our health care. Meditation isn’t something that I have ever been good at. I can’t be still for more than 30 seconds, never mind 30 minutes. I am not quiet, my mouth goes a mile a minute, along with my brain, but tragedy changes that.

It forces you to think, about yourself, about what happened, why it happened, and why it happened to you and your family? Will you ever be OK again? How long will it take to be OK again? Will your friends wait for you, or will they get tired of the tears and the grief, long before you are done grieving? All of these questions run through your brain like a thousand mile an hour freight train. The way to quiet the constant chattering brain is to meditate. I learned how to do it, (the 21st century way) via an app on my iPhone. It worked, it quieted my brain, but it didn’t turn the grief off.

Nothing turns the grief off, time doesn’t heal this wound. It makes it easier to deal with but it doesn’t heal it. This year of firsts has sucked. And now as we approach the holiday season and the first year anniversary of his death the pain is fresh and at times unbearable. Last year for the holidays I was numb, this year the numbness is gone, so I feel everything, the good, bad and the ugly.

I know that I will never be the same person again, and I am ok with that. I hate this new normal, but this new person I have become is pretty damn good. I have learned to laugh when things are funny, cry when I am sad, and give in to both the physical and emotional pain. Give in and ask for help, spend time with my friends, and share my feelings with them. No woman is an island, and trying to be one is a lonely feeling. I don’t want to be alone in my pain, it is too deep to handle on my own, but shared it can be dealt with.

I read a story online this morning from an elderly gentleman describing grief. That the deeper you love, the deeper the grief, and that someday the grief won’t feel like 100 feet waves every 5 seconds, with no time to breathe in between. I long for that day, the days when I can think about Connor without tears running down my cheeks. The days when the Facebook memories don’t cause a full blown meltdown before I even get out of bed.

Currently the waves are 10 feet tall with 5 seconds in between to breathe. I am treading water so I don’t drown. It is exhausting and painful, it makes every part of my body hurt, physical as well as emotional, and there are no way to separate the two.

My dear friend Erin has never lost a child, but wasn’t very old when she lost her husband and was left on her own with a small child. She assured me “that someday the 17th of the month will pass me by without a flood of tears, that someday I will be able to breath on that day without a hitch, and the fear that I will see, hear or smell something that sends me back into the depths of grief.” It has been 20 years for her, and in the last 3 she is finally able to breath on the 4th of every month.

I have hope, hope that I will be able to crawl out from under this heavy weight, hope that someday I will smile first instead of cry. Hope that someday Jordan will find some peace as well. The fruition of these hopes and dreams will come with time, and hard work. Time just ticks by, with the clock, and the hard work comes from the time I spend in therapy, the time I spend with my dear friends, and the time I spend writing and thinking.

This pain will never go away, because like any good mom, I loved Connor with every beat of my heart and to the depths of my south. What it will do is become manageable with time, and that is all I can hope and dream for.

It is no secret that as much as I love being a Boy Mom. I yearned for a daughter. Girl baby clothes are just so much cuter and I craved the mother daughter experience. From pre-school in Connor brought a string of girls home that I “adopted” into my life, Krystal, Mackenzie, a few fleeting ones at Mohawk, Hailey and then Jordan. He protected Jordan like she was made of crystal.

First we weren’t allowed to talk to her when she called. He would sprint to the phone yelling “I got it, it’s Jordan, she doesn’t want to talk to you anyway”, then if by some miracle we picked up the phone first he would immediately say “hang up she doesn’t want to talk to you, she’s my girlfriend.”

It was obvious he had found his love, his other half and the girl that complimented his soul. He learned about horses, and he taught her about SCCA Rally Racing. They loved the beach, and Connor was learning all about horse pulling from Jordan’s dad. Connor became a part of their family and Jordan became a part of ours. He brought me a daughter, one that is beautiful and kind and sweet. One who adored Connor, with all his craziness, his romantic side. He would bring her flowers just because and loved to spoil her with iced tea, candy and pop tarts.

In return Jordan treated him like a king, sending him notes, watching him play baseball and getting that darn goat with him. They truly were a matched set, made for each other. He spent more time at her house than he spent home, it seemed. But he was comfortable there, he felt like family, with the girl he loved.

Although they were only teenagers I envisioned them together forever, and so did he, I saw grandchildren (far in my future) and them living their lives together. That dream and vision was shattered for all of us last November. I have Jordan, and I will cherish her as long as she will remain in our lives. She is the daughter that Connor sent me, I just don’t understand why I can’t have them both at the same time, but I will hold onto what I have.😢

These last almost 11 months have been a delicate balancing act. Between enjoying the memories and pictures that I have encountered within these 11 months, and being bombarded with the waves of grief that those memories bring. Knowing that I will never be able to hug him again, or have a 2 sided conversation with him, hear that infectious laugh of his, or see those gorgeous blue eyes in person, watch him break into that spontaneous smile just because. That grief brings me to my knees, with big gut wrenching sobs, makeup running down my face and unable to catch my breath.

When I was pregnant with Connor all I wanted was a girl, one of each. I knew from the first ultrasound that wasn’t happening. Once he was born, he was “My Connor”, my baby, my mama’s boy and I wouldn’t have traded any of that. He was equal amounts of daredevil and snuggles. Playing sports, splashing in puddles, covered in mud, but wanting to sit on my lap and snuggle and have story time.

I fought him growing up, every step of the way, knowing once he was grown my baby time was gone. But keeping them little is fruitless, like trying to stop a moving train, or a rolling boulder. It just doesn’t work.

What I do know is I cherish every memory, whether they pop up on my Facebook Timeline, come up in a conversation, or are relayed to me by a friend. Those memories are my lifeline to him. My baby boy, the young man he became. My Connor in all his forms.

I can’t express how done I am. The pain in my right shoulder has become excruciating, doing simple things, like pulling my pants up, putting on a sweater, or reaching for something sends shooting and burning pain down my arm.

I have been playing phone tag with my PCP and an Ortho Group in Northampton. Today, while at the end of my rope, I called the Ortho group to find out what the hold up was on making an appointment. I refused to get off the phone until I got an answer, the answer I got was that their practice couldn’t help me, but at least it was an answer. Within a half an hour I had an appointment with another ortho group for tomorrow.

I tried the PCP office to get some pain relief, finally a call back yielded a prescription called into my pharmacy. But when I went to pick it up, they couldn’t fill it. Due to my insurance, they now require a prior authorization for a medication I have had before. I tried to call my insurance company, but due to the holiday (Columbus Day). Their phone lines are shut off.

After all of that, I sat in the car, with the music on loud and cried, big ugly tears running down my face, taking all my makeup with it. I cried for many reasons:

1. I will have to suffer through this pain for at least another night.

2. I am so frustrated with our Health Care System. We have gone from over medicating and causing this opioid issue, to not medicating at all, which solves nothing.

3. Health insurance companies making decisions doctors should make!!!

4. The pain in my heart, has now moved to my body parts and everything hurts.

I don’t want everything in my life to revolve around the loss of Connor, but as I get closer to the year anniversary. Everything is a trigger, the pain in my shoulder, the fact I can’t find an ingredient to go in my breakfast smoothie. The littlest thing sends me into huge racking sobs.

I hope that as time goes on it won’t always be like this, but all I can do it wade through the grief and take it one day, hour and minute at a time. Knowing that I will have to learn to live without him. I will never forget him, you never forget the ones you love, and you never forget your children. I just want to learn to live without the terrible pain, and replace it with all the love I have for him instead.

I am just past the 10 month mark, 10 months of this emotional roller coaster. Of horrific days, days that aren’t so bad, and days that I never knew I had this many tears in me to cry. Yet there are days I have laughed, laughed at the memories that he left behind. His silliness and the fact he had no sense of direction, he could get lost in a wet paper bag. I have been amazed at the caring, kind and romantic young man that it became evident that I raised. He had a long and productive life left in front of him, to show the world how it was done. I will never know or understand why that time was cut short, because there is no good reason for it.

I have formed stronger bonds with some of his friends parents. Letting me in on a part of his world that he kept hidden from his mom. Learning that he was a strong, committed and driven young man. He didn’t suffer fools well, he worked hard and expected those around him to as well. We held him to a high standard, and as a result he held his friends, teachers and co-workers to a high standard.

Do it right the first time, don’t mess around, and don’t take advantage of a situation to get ahead. He flourished in a stressful atmosphere and a time crunch. Much like me, he learned well on “the fly” and didn’t need much of a learning curve to figure things out. He and I can both thank my Dad for that, no learning curve in The Whalen household, you learned to do it right the first time!!

What I have learned in these last 10 months is this…

1. Hold the ones you love tight, and make sure they know how much you love them.

2. Apologize often and sincerely. Forgive yourself the most, there was nothing you could have done to prevent this awful loss.

3. Don’t hold a grudge, there is nothing in this life worth a grudge

4. There is nothing worse than the loss of a child, it will break your heart in ways that you didn’t know possible.

5. Yet you will learn to embrace the new normal. Not that you want to, but you will be forced to.

6. This doesn’t mean you are moving on, or by any means forgetting your child. It just means you are trying to live.

7. You will never forget, time will never heal this wound. You will just learn to play the hand you were dealt.

8. Let your friends and your family in, don’t lock everyone out. You are not an island, and locking yourself away won’t help anyone or anything.

9. Do what works for you, visit the cemetery or not. Find a place to talk to them that works for you. For me it is the Little League Baseball Field where he grew up playing the game that he loved.

10. Take each day as it comes, I was always a planner. I still plan, but not to the extent I used to.

But most of all breathe. In and out, one at a time. Someday it will be ok, I don’t know when that day is, I know it isn’t today, but someday it will be.